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Mr. B: isn't 87% of the age just right?

I am approaching one of life's watershed birthdays, those that end with a zero. It is ”fun”. Why this birthday bothers me so I don't know, but perhaps I gav

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Mr. B: isn't 87% of the age just right?

I am approaching one of life's watershed birthdays, those that end with a zero. It is ”fun”.

Why this birthday bothers me so I don't know, but perhaps I gave myself – and the psychologists who I no doubt will soon have to search for a clue in the weekend. Mrs. B asked, sincerely (yes, on the verge of desperate), what I wanted in the gift?

I said, ”Maybe... a fire extinguisher or a begravningskostym.”

After a moment, when I saw the look on Mrs. B's my, I realized that my answer could be more festive. Not only to all we interact with is alive. But also because we already have two fire extinguishers.

I'm that age made people invulnerable. If something terrible happened to one of the teachers could tell themselves that it did so much for her that she ”was the type femti”. As if the years would be an isolation, a body disposal, human shield, which grew in layers on layers. But now, when I have 49 such that the layer, I know that the main åldersförändringen is that you care a little less about the Human League and cool cykelstyren and a little bit more about whether they made their knäövningar. The heart is as tenderly, and self-esteem is still fragile. In addition, it seems, ironically, to worry more for the future, the less you have left of it.

Have you done a century so it has, and linguistic överkamningar is rarely more elegant than the skull and the

I will from now on to only partially tell you about my age. Namely, to 87 per cent. I have counted on it, and the 87 is perfect. It makes a 30-year-old to 26; a 40-year-old to 35 and, most importantly, me to 43. And according to this 87% rule, you can start to pick out their guarantee pension shortly before his 57th birthday. Just enough, not true?

But the truth, dear readers, is enough that I'm not going to lie, it has made for half a century so has man, and linguistic överkamningar is rarely more elegant than the skull.

I intend to celebrate in a strandkonsert with one of my favorite artists, Jovanotti (52). And when he sings that ”the only danger I really know/is to not be able to feel anything anymore” I will scream along as if there were no tomorrow – or, rather, as if there were a little fewer tomorrows.

But then the sun will go over the sea again, and heat the sand and me and all the palm trees along the Lungomare Pietro Paolo Mennea and soon, when I sneaked in again and låtsats sleep for a while, I am awakened by my little family. And then, there is the plan, I will feel what I knew all along: That given the option, there is nothing better than to be older.

Read more causeries of Mr B here. For example: J ag was tough once – now I must get to apologize.

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